So begins another Bombers season. 2.35pm, no quorum, a brokeback bunch of bozos miscuing passes to each other at one end of a field somewhere in the stucco badlands while a fine crew of honed and focused saurians stand in serried rows on their half of the field, waiting for the signal to kill.

JB’s nuanced negotiating skills resulted in a late kick off with 10 Bombers facing the foe. The home team were oiled and angry. There were 17 of them. The Bombers decided to go with la formationde jour, three at the back, six in the midfield, one up front. This was an almost perfect plan but failed to reckon with one factor – this is the largest field in the world. Acres of emptiness sat between JB, Mike and Nintendo at the back. Acres that a well drilled attack could walk through. Which sort of happened. But even with the wind at their backs they could not capitalise onsome gilt-edged chances. Time after time the Bombers midfield was by-passed but the Alamo did not fall.

Part of the reason the midfield was derelict in defence was because they were superlative in attack. After 20 minutes of rope-a-dope the ball broke down the left, and The Lord of Misrule sprinted like a rapist through the Wests defence to score a tasty goal. Coughing up buckets of lung, Nintendo was heard to say this was a bad thing, it would only enrage them further. And so it would, if there had not been a truly beautiful goal minutes later. JB on the left picked up a loose pass, controlled it (look it up), passed to Zel Boy, who passed to Marky, who passed to Son of God, who passed to The Lord of Misrule, who slung in a peach of a cross that the Genome slashed in at the far past. Half time.

The second half promised great things. Shattered but buoyant during the break, the talk was of making history and joyful nuptials. Who cared now if Sceatsy, Hansie, Mingus, Stent Boy, Controller, Calamari, Bodo, Al and Fish had all deserted ? We didn’t need these weak livered plastics. We were kings. All we had to do now was go out there again on the world’s largest field, stand our ground, claim our right, drink our beer, ravish our women.

The plan was perfect, except the standing part proved hard. As summer-lagered legs started to weaken and shake, the next 45 minutes resembled The Falling. Wests attacked in tight formations, while Bombers, always isolated, always outnumbered, fell down. Down went Son of God, down went JB, down went Nintendo, down went Marky Mark, down went Hilda, down went The Lord of Misrule. Even Doc, standing like a homeless man watching, fell down. The legs were gone. The acres had taken their toll. The home team sensed something and kept pushing, scoring an equaliser 4 seconds after Jackal had lashed the ball against their keeper’s shins with the goal gaping. The last twenty minutes, with the score even, saw Bomber after Bomber fall over. But the line held. Somehow the line held. Somehow the bloody line held.

Season 37 could be the year the Bombers reach great heights. Or, this collapsing episode could herald something too horrid to consider. The guts were there, the spirit was high, the grit was splendid. Perhaps we need more than 11 Bombers available for selection.